


Hold My Hand/Don't Let Me Go

by CaptainLeBubbles



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3546041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainLeBubbles/pseuds/CaptainLeBubbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hold my fucking hand, loser, we're using the buddy system for the rest of our lives.</p><p>(Now with epilogue)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://piratewatchesrvb.tumblr.com/post/113616765894/hold-my-fucking-hand-loser-were-using-the-buddy) on Tumblr.

The ride to find the reassembled Blues was quiet, and a little tense. Grif was mad about something, but Simmons couldn't figure out what. He suspected it was the reappearance of Sarge, who alternated between refusing to acknowledge Grif's promotion to Sergeant, and acknowledging it so that he could tell Grif how bad he was at it.

It was only when they stopped for a break that he finally decided he couldn't take it anymore, and sat down next to Grif. Grif huffed and turned away pointedly, and Simmons realized it was _him_ Grif was annoyed at. He frowned, brow furrowing in confusion. He and Grif argued all the time, but they rarely actually got _angry_ at each other.

“What's got you so upset?”

“What do you think?”

“Was it the near-execution? Because that was your fault, not mine. And Sarge turning up? Also not my fault. Having to leave your first command? Still not my fault. So why are you turning your back on _me_?”

“Tell me something, Simmons, what were you going to tell me when we were about to be executed? That thing you always wanted to tell me and couldn't?”

“What?” Simmons gulped. Grif was mad about that? He must have figured it out, then. Simmons turned away, fidgeting nervously. “N-nothing! Nothing important, just- just...”

He trailed off. He couldn't think of anything, and now that death wasn't looming over their heads, the truth seemed too hard to say. Grif made a noise of disgust and stood to storm off, but Simmons grabbed his hand and wouldn't let him go.

“This is why I'm angry, Simmons,” he said, rounding on the other. “I don't want to hear any dying confessions, okay? I don't want to die knowing what I _could_ have had. Next time we're about to die, you keep your stupid confessions to yourself, because unless you can say it to me when we know we'll probably see tomorrow, then _I don't want to hear it_.”

He huffed and pulled his hand from Simmons' grip, and stormed away, leaving Simmons to stare after him in shock.

Oh.

*

They were being transferred. The questions were over and Command was transferring them to a new base in Valhalla. Caboose was coming along too- Command didn't seem to have any record of him, and from the confused way they talked, they seemed to think he was a member of Red Team, just one they had no records of.

Anyway, there were two bases at Valhalla, so they supposed Caboose could just take the other one.

The ride to Valhalla was going to be a long one. Simmons sat beside Grif in the back of the Pelican transporting them (the pilot frightened him- she seemed like she was about to go off at any given moment) and pulled his helmet off. Grif had his off too, and he was staring down at it in his hands silently. Simmons would have thought he was being retrospective, if he couldn't see Grif's reflection in his visor and knew that he was just sleeping.

He reached over and touched Grif's hand. “Hey, wake up, fatass. I want to talk to you.”

“Hm? What?” Grif shook awake after a minute, and turned to look at Simmons. He yawned. “What about? I was sleeping.”

“Like you're not always sleeping?”

“I wake up!”

“To shovel food into your mouth.”

“If you're planning to nag me for the rest of the ride, I'm just going to go back to sleep.”

“No, don't. I said I wanted to talk to you, didn't I?”

“What _about_?”

“Um, well, I was thinking, and, I think you're right. It was wrong of me to- to wait until we were going to die to- to say anything.” He felt his face heating up, and knew he was blushing. Why couldn't he have left his helmet on for this? “So, so I thought I'd... say something. Now. When we're probably going to see tomorrow.”

“I don't know, this pilot seems kinda psycho.”

(“I heard that! I'll shut these engines off right the fuck now, don't think I won't!”)

“So, we'll probably live as long as you don't antagonize our pilot, which is close enough.”

“So what did you want to tell me?”

“That.. I...” He trailed off, fidgeting with his own helmet, and Grif's hand was suddenly covering his. “Um...”

“Loser.” And then Grif's lips were on his own, and Simmons sighed softly as they parted. “I already know, you nerd. Why didn't you say sooner?”

“You could have said just as easily as me, dipshit.”

*

Grif groaned and collapsed onto his bunk. He was in his underwear, his armor making a trail from door to bunk where he'd dropped it haphazardly. Simmons would probably bitch at him when he came in and saw it, but he couldn't bring himself to care just now. Besides, he was pretty good at tuning out Simmons' bitching.

“My kneecaps hurt,” he said, to no one in particular. Actually, all of him hurt. Getting blown up and falling eight thousand feet through the air did that to a guy.

“Don't be such a baby,” Simmons said from the doorway. Grif raised his head just enough to see him approaching, and let it fall again. Simmons made his way over and sat at the end of the bunk. “You've been hurt worse before.”

“And I whined about those injuries too. Simmooooons...” He lifted his head again, propping up on one elbow. “I really mean it. I'm hurt. You have to take care of me.”

“Whiner.” Still, he reached out and took Grif's free hand in his, lacing their fingers together. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to each of Grif's kneecaps. “Better?”

“You know, I think I am!” Grif seemed to brighten, grinning at Simmons. “I've got a few more bruises too, if you wanna treat those.”

“Dumbass.” Simmons shifted so that he was looming over Grif, and leaned in to capture a lingering kiss. “This isn't medically sound at all.”

“If it gets me kisses, I don't really care. Now kiss me again. My lips _really_ hurt. It'll take, like, ten kisses to fix them.”

*

Grif's hands were shredded from his fall. Doc had done his best, but given this  _was_ Doc, this had mostly involved scanning them and declaring that “Yep, they're pretty busted all right. That must really hurt,” and then wandering off to tell Wash about the bullet wound in his chest. It was Simmons who found the medkit and slathered the biofoam on Grif's hands.

“You've really got to stop nearly dying,” Simmons said, holding his hands out. Grif laid his own in them, palms up, and swore he felt better already. It was probably the pain killers, but he decided that he would give the credit to Simmons.

“It's not my fault,” he said, a petulant whine creeping into his voice. “It was the Meta.”

“Well, he's dead now,” Simmons said. “So maybe things will quiet down.”

“Yeah right. You know things aren't going to stay quiet for much longer. There were fifty Freelancers in the program, remember? And we've only had to deal with a few of them. Who knows how many there are still out there, waiting to cause trouble for us?”

Simmons sighed. He hated to admit it, but Grif was right. No doubt there would be another Freelancer trying to kill them sooner or later.

He shook his head, and leaned in to kiss Grif softly. “We'll deal with that when it happens,” he said. “Hopefully they'll wait until your hands are healed, though.”

“I hope they heal soon.” Grif stole another kiss before Simmons could get too far away. “I miss holding hands with you.”

“It hasn't even been that long, idiot.”

“It's been long enough!”

*

Another Freelancer showed up. Grif wondered if he should have started a betting pool for how long it would take.

“You have an hour to settle things here and then we're leaving,” Agent Carolina said, before storming away, Wash trailing after her like a lost kitten. He'd been so happy to see her, had looked like he might actually hug her if they weren't both Freelancers and above emotions.

'Settling things' at Sidewinder had really been a matter of just making sure everything was locked up. Not that there was a reason to- the locks were a joke, and it wasn't like there was anything worth stealing in the base anyway, but it was the principle of the thing.

Grif and Simmons were waiting in the base now, not willing to let Carolina know they were ready and be forced to get pulled back into fresh danger. Grif had Simmons' human hand clutched tightly in his lap; Simmons had his head resting on Grif's shoulder.

“Just don't get almost killed, nerd,” he said finally, when they heard Carolina calling. He stood and pulled Simmons up with him.

“Me get almost killed? Please, dipshit, you're the one always almost dying.”

“Let's move, you two!” Carolina was stalking through the base toward their little hideaway. Grif grabbed Simmons and dragged him down for a kiss just before she entered. “Oh come on. There'll be time for that later! We've got work to do!”

Grif sighed, and rested his forehead against Simmons. “You know, I'm already starting to not like her.”

*

“Why is it _always_ my balls with her?” Grif asked. He was curled around himself on the floor, waiting for Carolina and Church to get back from killing the Director. Simmons scoffed and sat beside him; Grif made an indignant noise over that. “You should be more upset by this too, you know. They're as much yours as they are mine.”

“They used to _be_ mine.”

“I may need someone to donate a new pair. Wash isn't using his, maybe he'll donate them.”

(“Who says I'm not using them?”  
“Wait, what?”)

Simmons shook his head, and took Grif's hand, reaching out with his other to stroke Grif's hair. “You'll be fine, you always are.”

They sat there for awhile, until Carolina reappeared. She looked shaken, on the edge of tears that she was refusing to let fall. She made a beeline for Wash, who opened his arms wordlessly and hugged her. They could hear, if they focused, the sound of Wash murmuring comfortingly to her. It was surreal and a little terrifying to see Carolina, of all people, so broken, and it was this that made Simmons pull Grif to his feet and lead him away, to the relative privacy of a different clump of trees.

They sank down against a tree and leaned on one another, falling into a comfortable silence that Grif, eventually, broke.

“Marry me,” he said suddenly. Simmons stiffened against him.

“W-what?”

“You heard me, loser.” He grabbed Simmons' hand in his own. “When this is over and we get our names cleared and we can go home, I want you to marry me.”

“This isn't exactly a romantic proposal, you know...”

“If you wanted romance, you should have dated Donut.” Grif was chewing his lip though, each moment that Simmons didn't answer making him nervous.

Simmons took pity on him. He shifted his hand so he could tangle their fingers together. “All right. But only if you get me an actual ring first chance you get.”

“Deal. There's gotta be a quarter machine around here somewhere...”

Simmons smacked him with their joined hands, a smile tugging at his lips. “Asshole.”

“What does that say about you? You're the one who agreed to marry me.”

“It says I have terrible taste.”

“You wanna talk terrible taste, I'm in love with a fucking nerd.”

They were both grinning now, and it was nothing for Simmons to close the distance between them and kiss Grif like he meant it. Grif gave a content sigh when they parted.

“....dibs on not telling Donut.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wash is full of shit, he's not using them.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif keeps his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist. Takes place while Church and Tucker have their moment in episode 15.

*

Grif was raiding the gas station for snacks he could squirrel away in his armor when he spotted the machine. It was almost quaint in how outdated it was, but it didn't actually seem out of place, here. And it was very convenient. Grif had a few credits stowed away in his armor, because he'd always made a policy of having cash handy, so he had no trouble getting the prize.

Not that he really needed to use his credits- it would be easy to just break the machine open and choose the one he wanted. But it was the principle of the thing. Besides, this way was more fun.

He found Simmons outside and grabbed his hand, pulling him around a corner for a little privacy. Simmons squawked in surprise, but didn't object.

Once Grif was sure they weren't going to be overheard, he stopped and turned to face Simmons, then tugged his helmet off. Simmons followed suit, and no sooner was it gone than Grif grabbed his hand again. He lifted it, eying it curiously. He hadn't actually thought this through, but with Simmons' gloves in the way...

Hmmm...

Simmons made another noise of surprise when Grif plunked something into his hand and closed his fingers around it, giving Simmons a smug look as he did.

“There!” Grif said. “I kept my promise.”

“What are you-” Simmons looked at the thing in his palm, and rolled his eyes. “Did you seriously just give me a ring that you got out of a gumball machine?”

“You said you wanted a ring.”

“Idiot.”

Simmons was giving Grif a fond look, though, and he wasted no time in stringing the ring onto the chain with his dog tags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simmons totally went back and got Grif a ring from the machine after this. Grif teased Simmons for copying him.
> 
> (I kinda like the idea of them wearing their rings on their dog tags. It's kinda cute.)


End file.
